


Surrender

by LadyAshlyn



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Albus Dumbledore Bashing, Alternate Universe - Voldemort Wins, Dark Hermione Granger, Dark Magic, Other, Politics, Ron Weasley Bashing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-02
Updated: 2020-11-02
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:15:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27339292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyAshlyn/pseuds/LadyAshlyn
Summary: Hermione Granger has been fighting to survive ever since she entered the magical world. With threats ranging from monstrous serpents to a corrupt government she's used (almost) every trick in the book to stay alive. When Harry Potter dies and the Dark Lord Voldemort reigns over the magical world Hermione finds her luck has run out and she has only one option left. Surrender.
Kudos: 21





	1. Chapter I

It should have been a day for celebration. It was not. It should have been a day for celebration as the once immortal Dark Lord was now, once again, simply just a man. It should have been a day for celebration but it was not, the boy who lived was no more and the Dark Lord had won.  
“Harry Potter is dead.” The statement was uttered simply, no hint of remorse, nor glee. The masked Death Eaters were silent as they moved to surround the remaining members of Dumbledore’s once great Army. The students, the ones following their teachers and peers rather than masterminding plots, that is, were left alone. Some dropped their wands in surrender. Others tried a last, valiant, attempt at defeating the Dark Lord, quickly to find themselves joining the arrested.

Harry Potter had died not a martyr, but a failure. His legacy no longer the death of Voldemort, but of countless children sacrificed in vain.  
The courtyard was in ruins, as were the people within it. For the first time in centuries, Hogwarts fell still, and for what seemed like hours and days the only sound that could be heard was the occasional sob, the only movement corpses being lifted into the makeshift mortuary. In reality it was only about five minutes before the Dark Lord spoke once again, this time addressing only his soldiers and not the entire school.

“Find Potter’s friends, and bring them to me.”

Hermione watched the scene unfold from an alcove five floors up, which she suspected was supposed to hold a window judging from the broken glass scattered around her. She could see him quite clearly, stood in the centre of the open courtyard. One teensy _Avada Kedavra_ and he would be dead. But what was the point? The Order of the Phoenix were all either dead or about to be, their reputation was in tatters thanks to Dumblrdore’s failed propaganda efforts, they had nobody left on the outside. She could kill Voldemort right now, and they would still lose. And she was tired. Tired of fighting, tired of running, tired of being a child forced to play war. She just wanted to fall asleep, while she could still hear the birds sing and the sun on her face. For months her body had felt like it was on the verge of shutting down, she was honestly surprised that it hadn’t. Her clothes were ripped and covered in months’ worth of grime, she was covered in cuts and bruises and she was fairly certain she had a few broken bones, her hair was matted and she couldn’t remember the last time she had showered, or even just brushed her teeth. She was more than ready to give up.

So those were her options, she thought, not really with any emotion at all. She could kill the Dark Lord, get arrested, and spend the rest of her life in Azkaban. She could wait to be found by the Death Eaters, get dragged kicking and screaming to Voldemort, be tortured to within an inch of her life and publicly executed all while looking like every single filthy mudblood stereotype she had ever heard of. Or, she could find somewhere that she could have a bath and she could face her inevitable death with at least some amount of dignity.

She thought about it for less than a minute before pulling a shard of glass out of her thigh, and ducking out of her alcove and into a rarely used staircase tower. The question was now, up or down? The next five or six stairs downwards immediately crumbled away, making her decision for her. She bolted up the stairs, thinking that someone was chasing her until she came upon a corridor, the doors and corridors that _should_ have been lining it were all filled in with rubble, forcing her to go forwards. Towards the grand staircase. 

Cautiously, she inched her way along the hallway, expecting one of the masked soldiers to come rushing through the door arch towards her. No such thing happened, and as she reached the door she flattened herself against the wall and peered around. The staircases were completely still, which she had never seen before and she could hear shouts of frustration about it from a few doors down.

And it was that moment in which she realised that the castle was protecting her, or rather, that it was leading her somewhere. A route that she really should have recognised from her last year at school. Quickly kneeling down and pressing her hand to a flagstone, she muttered her thanks before darting up the stairs towards the room of requirement, praying that nobody had seen her.

She reached the stretch of wall and was surprised to see the door already there, the castle forgoing her of the need to pace. Awaiting her as she walked through the door was an immensely sized bathtub sunken into the ground, full of flowery scented bubbles. Next to the, well it was really more of a pool than a bath, were soft lounge chairs next to tables covered in gently flickering candles, and shelves covered in fluffy towels and bathrobes and every kind of bath product you could think of.  
There was a doorway, other than the one she had just come through, which appeared to lead through to a bedroom. She ignored it, though, in favour of stripping and jumping straight into the water without a second thought.

It was the best bath she had ever had, which was nice, as it was probably going to be her last. When she needed a hair brush, one appeared next to her. If she named the product that she wanted, it would float off the shelf and into her hand. The water temperature remained perfectly consistent throughout all the hours she spent in the water. She got out, feeling fully contented, wrapped her hair in a towel and a bathrobe around herself, and realised she was absolutely starving. Both literally and figuratively, she hadn’t eaten in about four days. She knew the room couldn’t conjure up food, and so she sat down to find a way around it.

“Um, castle…?” she began hesitantly after a few minutes. “Is there any way you can bring a house-elf here…?”  
Nothing happened. She sighed and closed her eyes to think again only to open them at a loud ‘pop’ noise, and see a house-elf stood in front of her.  
“Hello,” she smiled warmly at it. “Would it be too much to ask for you to prepare me a meal of some sort?”  
The house-elf shook its head. “I’s will be being right back.”  
“Oh!” Hermione added quickly, seeing that the odd creature was about to leave. “And would it be much trouble if nobody but the other house-elves knew about this?”  
The elf looked slightly confused, before popping away again, and popping back a moment later.  
“If yous will follow me.”

She followed the elf through the doorway into the bedroom to see a dining table set at a single place, with a bottle of elvish mead and a jug of pumpkin juice in the centre.

She looked around and saw the room also contained a bed covered in soft looking pillows and blankets, and a large wooden wardrobe which had a pair of pyjamas hanging off of the handle. Hermione took the pyjamas and put them on before sitting down at the table and taking a bread roll.

She broke it open with her hands and brought it up to her face, inhaling the warm smell of freshly baked bread. It was taking all of her inner strength not to grab the entire basket and cram as much bread as she could into her mouth at once. It’s been a long time since she last ate, and much, much longer than that since she’s has the luxurious food the Hogwarts house-elves prepare. She took a bite out of the bread, and another, and another. She finished the roll, and instead of taking another like she desperately wanted to, she forced herself to wait for the rest of her food.

As she filled out a glass of pumpkin juice, a plate of roast dinner appeared in front of her. She ate as slowly as she could manage, which was not that slowly at all, then ate the chocolate cake that appeared afterwards. When she felt as though she couldn’t possibly eat anymore, she looked at the wine in curiosity. She was seventeen and had never tried alcohol, always forgoing drinking games in favour of studying. 

She poured herself out a glass and tentatively took a sip. It was surprisingly nice, although she attributed that to it being elf made, and she wasn’t sure if she liked the fuzzy warm feeling that came after or not. She shrugged and downed the glass, before crawling onto the bed and covering herself with the fluffy blankets. She would sleep for a long time.

* * *

When Hermione awoke again, a look out of the window told her that it was early evening, meaning she had slept for a whole day. She felt fully refreshed and the balms she had applied during her bath had made all of her cuts and bruises disappear overnight. Her dinner plates had been cleared off the small dining table, replaced by a full English breakfast, a fruit bowl, toast, tea, and orange juice. The mead had remained untouched.

When she sat down to eat, she did so much slower than she had the previous evening. Here, in the room of requirement, she was living a life of luxury. Soon, she would have to venture down to the great hall to meet her end. Did it really matter though, she thought to herself. She had erased all trace of her existence from the muggle world, she had nobody left in the magical one, if she had really had anybody in the first place. Harry and Ron had been her only friends, and they hadn’t really been friends, now that she looked back on it. Harry and Ron had been friends, yes, but not with her. She was just their way of getting out of homework and research for Dumblrdore’s quests.

She finished eating and got into the bath, still absentmindedly looking back on her life. She had wasted her childhood, she realised. Trying to make people like her by doing things for them, trying to be perfect, trying to be _good_. Her time at Hogwarts had certainly been interesting and life changing, but had it been enjoyable, in the way that it should have been for a young girl? No, not really. The only part she truly remembered enjoying was a study project she’d had the year before with Theodore Nott.

He understood the way that she thought, and her hunger for forbidden knowledge. They’d turned in two copies of the defence essay to Snape, one lengthy, predictable, and filled with references from Dumbledore approved textbooks. The other, slightly shorter, was more opinionated, and referenced books from the restricted section and their private collections, all of which were frowned upon, many of which illegal. One copy was put in their academic records, the other returned with a grade ‘O’ and a warning not to let anybody else see it.

The only time at Hogwarts she had truly enjoyed and she had had to hide it from her classmates, housemates, and ‘friends’ because Nott was a _Slytherin_ and that meant he was _Evil_. He had later joined the Death Eaters she reasoned, but that didn’t change that he had been nice to her.

She charmed her hair dry and styled it into big, but graceful curls, before walking back into the bedroom. Opening the wardrobe, she expected to choose an outfit, to see that the castle had already picked one out for her. A simple, yet elegant, black dress was hung up, above black stockings, shoes, and underwear. She took the clothes and set them on the bed before moving over to a newly appeared vanity to do her make up. She carefully concealed the dark rings around her eyes and the scars that littered her face. She looked beautiful and confident, but not threatening. Perfect.

Hermione had never worn stockings before and it took her a few tries to put them on right, but finally, she was dressed. And now there was nothing left to keep her in here. She closed her eyes and took a few deep breaths. Hopefully, he would make it quick. Unlikely though.

She poured a tiny amount of mead into a glass then walked over to stand at the window. She stared out and held the glass up in a toast.

“To surrender.”

And with that, she drained the glass and left her safe haven without looking back. Once she was out into the main school she cast a disillusionment charm on herself before putting her wand in a hidden pocket of her dress. She made her way down to the great hall, occasionally standing flat against the wall as Death Eaters brushed past.

The doors to the great hall were guarded, presumably to not let any stray members of the Order access to Voldemort. Still disillusioned, she stunned the guards and then removed the charm from herself.

Hermione took a deep breath and pushed the doors open. The hall looked much the same, but also completely different. The four house tables were still there, still full of students eating dinner, but there was a long, green carpet running through the centre of the room up to the dais where, instead of the staff table, was a throne, with two smaller staff tables on either side. On the throne sat a very young, very human looking Voldemort. _It’s probably the lack of horcruxes_ she mused to herself before snapping back to the present. Every pair of eyes was on her, even those of the prisoners lined up in front of the staff table. She met eyes with Ginny Weasley, who looked defiant despite her chains.

Holding her head high, Hermione walked the length of the great hall before coming to a halt in front of the stairs up to the dais, and the Dark Lord’s throne. She took out her wand, and fell to her knees, much to the prisoners, and some of her older housemates, disgust.

She looked the dark wizard in the eye, noting he looked really more amused than anything else, and held out her wand to him.

“My Lord,” she began, secretly pleased that her voice didn’t waver. “I’ve come to offer you my surrender.”


	2. Chapter II

If you have ever had a severe burn, you will know that it causes what is quite possibly the worst pain imaginable. The pain begins in the immediate area of the burn, seeping out into the unburned areas while the pain gradually gets worse. Often, the worst parts of the burn go numb as the nerve endings are cauterised, the flesh melts away, and the muscle begins to cook. The pain of a burn is so bad that burning is frequently considered the most painful method of death. Even after submerging the wound in cool, flowing water, and taking copious amounts of painkillers, a bad burn will still have a throbbing pain which will get significantly worse if the affected body part moves or is touched. This kind of pain can last for weeks, depending on the severity of the burn.  
If you have never had a burn that severe, and you cannot imagine the sheer scale of the pain, then you are incredibly lucky. If you _have_ had a burn that severe, or you can manage to comprehend the pain of such a burn, then you should imagine that kind of pain across every single millimetre of your body. If you can manage to comprehend _that_ scale of pain, then you can almost imagine how painful the cruciatus curse is.

Hermione had walked into the great hall with the full expectation of being hit with the unforgivable, however unfortunately for her, eighteen months of being on the run and being periodically subject to various kinds of torture had made her overly confident in her pain tolerance and knowledge of just _how_ far the human body could be pushed whilst still retaining full consciousness. She didn’t really remember much other than desperately trying not to scream and fainting after what felt like hours.  
She came to slowly, at first trapped in her own mind, before gradually regaining control of each individual part of her body. Immediately Hermione felt that something was wrong. She could feel a soft mattress and pillow underneath her, much nicer than anything she’d ever slept on before, and certainly not the stone cell she was expecting. Someone had also changed her clothes, a fact which unnerved her more than anything else, and she was now wearing what felt like a long nightdress. More importantly than anything, her wand was gone.  
She tried to push herself into a sitting position but a flash of white-hot pain shot up her arms and she collapsed back down again. Breathing heavily she tried to will the pain away enough that she could try again, before hearing muttering from a few metres away and feeling hands placed gently on her shoulder and lower back, helping her sit up.  
“Here, drink this,” a voice told her as a potion she recognised as a mild pain killer. She swallowed it down with some difficulty and almost immediately the pain in her limbs dulled. She opened her mouth to speak but the owner of the voice beat her to it.  
“And this,” she was told again as a large glass of water was placed in her hands. Quickly gulping it down, she winced as the cold water hit her throat, raw from her screaming during the curse.  
“Now this.” She hesitated as the owner of the voice thrust a spoon in her face, but opened her mouth anyway. She was surprised to taste that it was only honey, and relieved as it soothed her sore throat.  
“Thank you,” she said hoarsely, looking up into the face of a boy she vaguely recognised as Theodore Nott who, still in his school uniform, was leaning against the wall and staring at her with a neutral expression.  
A third voice spoke up, not _quite_ whining.  
“For fucks sake, I’d hoped the mudblood would have worn out her vocal chords.” Hermione instantly recognised the voice as belonging to Draco Malfoy.  
“Do you know how much she fucking talks, Theo? Never shuts up,” Malfoy continued, before launching into a mocking imitation of her answering a question in class.  
Hermione cringed as Nott laughed. She surely wasn’t _that_ bad, was she? She took a deep breath to steady herself.  
“It’s nice to see you too, Malfoy,” she said as calmly as she could. Which wasn’t particularly calm at all as she was an over boiling pot of emotions, mostly anger at their mockery, and terror at the completely unexpected situation she found herself in.  
Malfoy stopped suddenly, then picked up his wand and stuck it roughly under Hermione’s chin.  
“Listen up here you mudblood bitch,” he spat as her breathing became increasingly more shaky as wood drove into her windpipe. “Nobody believes your pathetic little ‘scared and submissive’ act so just drop it. As soon as we find out what you’re planning, you’re dead. And trust me, I will find out.” As he spoke he pushed his wand further into her throat, until her head hit the headboard and she started struggling for breath.  
“No plan-” she gasped. “Just- want- to live. I swear.”  
Malfoy ever so slightly relaxed his grip.  
“Of course you do. You were hidden and nobody knew where you were so you decided to walk right into the place full of people you knew wanted to torture and kill you, rather than fleeing the country,” he scoffed. “Your survival instinct is almost as abysmal as your hair.”  
“I’ve been a fugitive, Malfoy. I’d rather be dead than live like that for the rest of my life.”  
He hesitated a moment, struggling to think of a retort, before scowling and retreating back to the armchair he had previously occupied.

“Why am I here?” she asked, trying not to let her desperation show in her voice. “I was expecting a damp cell, maybe some chains, a bit more torture, you know? And who the fuck undressed me?” As she spoke, her desperation was replaced by anger and she glared at both of them while waiting for an answer.  
“Our lord has decided that you are… valuable, to him,” Nott began carefully. “He has demanded that you are to be treated with respect, and while you are not currently permitted to leave this room or interact with anybody other than the two of us, the Dark Lord is insistent that you are a guest and not a prisoner.”  
“And?” Hermione demanded.  
Nott turned ever so slightly red before clearing his throat. “I believe it is our lord’s intention for you to publicly swear your allegiance to the cause…”  
She closed her eyes to think.  
“It’s a good strategic move, I admit. Now answer my other question.”  
Nott made an odd choking noise that he quickly disguised as a cough.  
Hermione’s eyes shot open. “Oh you absolute _bastard_ ,”   
“Yes, Theo, why don’t you tell the little mudblood all about how you took her clothes off and tucked her up in your bed,” Malfoy said, laughing and shaking his head. “Such poor taste.”  
“Shut _up_ , Draco, you know that isn’t how it happened.” Nott glared at the other boy while wincing slightly as Hermione threw an admittedly weak but wandless and silent cutting hex at him.  
“Stop bloody cursing me,” Theo protested as she threw another. “ _Protego!_ Stop being such a bitch, Granger, and let me explain. We were told specifically not to let anyone else in on mudblood babysitting, I used magic, and I didn’t touch or look at you. Happy?”  
She said nothing but continued to glare at him.  
“Look, do you honestly think I’m stupid enough to question a direct order?”  
“No, but I did think that he might be,” Hermione bit back, nodding at Malfoy.  
Nott made another odd choking noise which, this time, sounded suspiciously like a laugh before she continued questioning him.  
“ _Your_ bed?”  
“The head dorms,” he explained. “To keep you separated from everyone else.”  
“My wand?”  
“Safe. I don’t know where so don’t bother asking.”  
She opened her mouth to ask another question but Malfoy spoke before she could.  
“He didn’t say that we both had to be watching her twenty four seven, did he? Excellent. I’m leaving.” Malfoy quickly left through a door that Hermione could have sworn didn’t exist a second prior, and disappeared again as soon it closed.  
There was a long, awkward silence, which Nott broke even more awkwardly by asking  
“Do you want to go back to sleep? Or something to eat? Or…” before trailing off, realising that she’d closed her eyes again, and thinking she was asleep.  
“I’d quite like some clothes,” she responded, so quietly he wasn’t sure she’d said it at all.  
“There were some sent up for you.” Nott gestured to a wardrobe on the other side of the room.  
“Is that not yours?” she asked, looking over in confusion.  
Nott looked just as confused before realising.  
“This isn’t actually _my_ room, that was just Draco being a dick. The head dorm has four bedrooms around a central living area, yours is one of the spares.”  
Hermione visibly relaxed then sat up again with some difficulty. She shook her head when Nott offered her help standing up and dangled her legs over the edge of the bed before taking a tentative step. She screamed as a burning pain shot up her legs and she collapsed. Nott caught her around the waist just before she hit her head and lifted her back onto the bed, before quickly uncorking another pain potion and passing it to her.  
“Don’t fucking touch me.” She glared at him and threw the empty bottle in general direction.  
He glared back.  
“I apologise, Granger,” he said, not sounding particularly apologetic. “But if my lord finds out you were injured on my guard, then I suspect that I’d end up significantly worse off than you are now.”  
She tried to get up again but he stopped her.  
“You can’t even stand up, how do you think you’re going to walk across the room?”  
“I can do it,” she protested indignantly.  
“Don’t be an idiot,” Nott said, not unkindly. He was silent for a moment, thinking. “I suppose, I could carry you…?”  
Hermione looked disgusted at thought.  
“I thought I’d made it quite clear that I didn’t want you anywhere near me.”  
“Suit yourself,” Nott sighed, before walking over to the small seating area on the other side of the room and sitting with his back to her.  
For a good ten minutes there was complete silence other than the sound of their breathing, Nott occasionally turning the page of the book he had picked up, and the ticking of a clock that Hermione hadn’t even realised was there until it started driving her insane. She decided to just swallow the few remaining dregs of her pride.  
“Nott?” She waited a few moments before repeating his name, unsure if he was intentionally ignoring her or if she had just spoken too quietly.  
“Hm?” He didn’t bother to turn around to face her, but she thought the noise seemed to have an amused lilt to it.  
“I- Will you- Can I have some help?” Hermione’s voice was barely above a whisper. She felt a deep shame that in just a few days she had gone from being one of the leaders of the resistance to begging for help from a death eater. “Please…?”   
_At least you’re alive_ she reasoned to herself as Nott finished levitating an armchair to in front of the wardrobe and once again came to stand at her bedside. He crouched down beside her and reached out to her before stopping himself.  
“May I?”  
“Well I don’t have much bloody choice, do I?” she muttered, more to herself than anyone.  
“Put your arms around the back of my neck,” he told her gently. When she did so he took it as her confirmation and, with one arm under her knees and the other under her back he carefully picked her up and carried her over to the chair.  
“You do that with girls a lot?” Hermione said as a half-hearted attempt at a joke after she had sat down.  
Nott stilled and turned away from her again.  
“I helped bring in the bodies after the battle,” His voice had a sudden coldness to it, eerily similar to Malfoy. “If you’ll excuse me a moment, I’ll let you dress with dignity.”  
She tried not to feel guilty about his sudden change in behaviour as the boy left the room. Trying to dress as quickly as possible, she found that if she used the chair to balance she could just about stand up on her own. She grabbed the first outfit she saw, a simple black blouse and skirt, stockings, and underwear and dressed as fast as she could without fainting from the pain.  
While a disturbingly large amount of things in the magical world were firmly stuck in the sixteenth century, Hermione was grateful for the fact that pureblood witch fashion had progressed as far as the nineteen forties and fifties. Before now, the modest dress style had always irked her and she had always brushed it off as stuck up and prude, but now as she was feeling vulnerable and over exposed already, the clothes gave her a slight comfort that would never have been granted by the revealing styles of modern, muggle fashion.  
Sinking back down into the chair, Hermione spent the next half an hour growing increasingly frustrated at her lack of mobility. She could deal with the migraines and the back pain and the uncontrollable twitching of her hands when she tried to move them, but not being able to walk, or even to stand up, was driving her insane. When Hermione was stressed she liked to read a book, or pace, or go for a walk down by the lake. None of which she could do currently, because she couldn’t use her legs properly. She prayed that the damage wasn’t permanent.   
Eventually she got sick of being bored. There was a bookcase a few metres away, she thought that if she could use the back the chair to help her balance, then she could reach the shelf and the little settee next to it. Figuring that it was worth a try she carefully stood up and made her way around to the back of the chair.   
_Just a few more little steps an-_  
As soon as she let go of the chair she fell to the ground in a heap, screaming out of an equal combinations of pain and frustration. She lay on the (thankfully) carpeted floor, sobbing for what felt like hours, but was really only a few minutes before Nott came back into the room.  
“The wards tripped. You didn’t try to kill yourself or something, did you?” He said quickly as he entered the room before laying eyes on her. “Oh you absolute idiot, Granger,” he said, annoyed. He picked her up again and put her back down on the sofa before sitting down opposite her.  
“I apologise for taking so long, I went down to the kitchens to arrange your meals and was accosted by a few of my classmates.”  
Hermione took this to mean _‘please don’t tell Voldemort that I went against his orders and left you alone’_ and nodded slowly.  
“I did get this though,” he continued, showing her a pack of exploding snap cards and dealing them out.  
After several games the pain had mostly faded again, which she was thankful for as she couldn’t have another dose of pain potion, and there was a slight hint of a smile on her face.  
“Thanks for this,” she said softly, speaking for the first time in a few hours.  
Her smile completely disappeared when Nott suddenly turned cold.  
“Don’t thank me, mudblood, I’m just doing my job. As if I want to spend my time babysitting _you_ ,” he said, his words laced with disgust. “I am here, because my lord demands it of me. I am polite to you, because, for some reason that he hasn’t deigned to share with the rest of us, my lord has decided that you are important somehow. Do not mistake courtesy for kindness. Do not think, that I wouldn’t kill you in a heartbeat if my lord permitted it. _Do not think,_ that the very idea of your existence doesn’t repulse me.”  
Hermione closed her eyes and sat in silence for a few moments.  
“I think that I’d like to go back to sleep now.”  
“Then sleep,” he spat, before storming out of the room and leaving her all alone one again

* * *

She must have fallen asleep fairly soon after because the next thing Hermione knew she was being woken up to tiny paper planes flying into her face and, when she opened her eyes, Malfoy sat opposite her laughing and folding small pieces of parchment.  
“What do you want, Malfoy?” she murmured, her voice still thick with sleep.  
He gestured to the coffee table in front of her, a plate of shepherd’s pie and a goblet of juice on top of it.  
“Well, as it turns out, you do actually have to feed mudbloods to keep them alive. Amazing isn’t it? You learn something new every day!”  
She sighed, quickly shaking her head in an attempt to wake up quicker.  
“Never change, Malfoy.”  
The blonde simply scowled and went back to flicking the little planes at her.  
She took her plate and put it on her lap, not bothering to even ask Malfoy to help her sit at the small dining table. She didn’t _feel_ particularly hungry, but it had been… what, a day? Two? Three? Since she had last eaten and she felt that she should probably try to force something down anyway. She picked up her fork and went to spear a bit of potato but her hands were shaking so bad she dropped it onto the floor. After picking it up again and wiping it off with a napkin she tried again. This time, the shaking was so bad that the plate went to the floor too.  
She didn’t bother trying to clean it up, she didn’t see a point. What was the point to anything anymore? She put her head in her hands and tried not to cry.  
Hermione knew she’d made a big mistake. Everyone she had ever loved, or even liked, was dead or as good as. Harry, Ron, dead. Ginny, Neville, in prison, probably dead by now. Mum, Dad, had no idea she existed. And so many others too. The rest of the Weasley’s. Most of her housemates. Susan Bones. Cho Chang. Professor Lupin. Countless aurors, and students, and random civilians that decided to join the Order. Luna Lovegood, probably the only real friend she had ever had. Dead. Actually… was Luna dead? Hermione didn’t remember seeing her amongst the fallen, and a few people had said her father had disappeared too. Did it matter? She was still gone, and Hermione would never see her again. It was only a matter of time before Voldemort made an example of her, what on earth had she been thinking by surrendering?  
“It goes away you know,” Malfoy’s quiet voice brought her from her silent ramblings back to reality for a moment. “The tremors,” he continued. “It takes a few days, but they disappear.”

Hermione had always known, deep down, that she was alone, especially now. Everyone she had ever loved was dead. And yet, the first time that she had ever truly _felt_ alone was just then. When Draco Malfoy felt pity for her. Hermione began to cry. 


	3. Chapter III

Hermione was restless. And bored. But boredom was something she could deal with. Usually.  
It had been two weeks since she had woken up inside her luxurious prison, one week since she had regained full motor control and could finally walk again, and three days since she had begun to think that maybe living as a muggle in a tiny village in France wouldn’t have been such an awful idea after all. While having nothing to do but sleep, with the occasional meal or game of cards mixed in, was absolutely wonderful to start with while she was recovering it had quickly become hell on earth. Malfoy and Nott had decided after only a couple of days that guarding her could be defined as spending their time in the main sitting room outside of her quarters and checking on her every few hours.

Hermione was well aware that she could have a lot more to complain about, and she was sure she was being treated significantly better than any other prisoner in magical Britain, but she would have sworn that Malfoy and Nott were making her life difficult on purpose. The food had been absolutely delicious as always, but for the first week, every other meal had been soup. It probably wouldn’t have bothered her as much if it hadn’t stopped being served as soon as her hands stopped shaking. A few days in, when Malfoy came to check on her, she had politely requested some new reading material. The few books that were on the shelf were their textbooks for that year. Obviously, Hermione had already read them. (Twice). Malfoy came back and hour later with a tome titled _Proper Etiquette for The Young Witch,_ so she didn’t bother asking again.

Hermione would wager that probably she knew as much (and if not, more) about the Dark Lord as he did about himself. In the years running up to his death, Dumbledore had subjected Harry to endless lectures on everything about Voldemort, from his childhood to his reading habits. Harry had always immediately run back to her and Ron and recited everything he had been told. One of the few things about him that Harry had learned independently of Dumbledore, however, was how the Dark Lord looked. Harry had always told of a man that looked more creature than wizard. Devoid of hair, with bright, crimson eyes and scaly skin so pale it was a wonder his body contained any blood at all.

This led her to wonder, and she had had a lot of time for wondering, exactly what had changed since before the battle leading to his appearance changing so drastically. From the brief glimpse she had caught of him in the great hall he had looked completely human. And sane. And _young_. And, although Hermione swore she would never think it again, honestly rather handsome.

Another thing that she had spent rather a lot of time wondering, was just how long she would be expected to stay in her luxurious prison. While her confinement had given her plenty of time to practise her wandless magic, and to plan what steps she was going to do next, she was finding it increasingly hard to do the latter whilst receiving no news of the outside world. It was making her increasingly nervous as to what exactly the Dark Lord had planned for her. Meanwhile Malfoy and Nott ignored her as much as possible, but when speaking to her continued their odd switching between kind and sympathetic, and cold and aloof.

It was this that confused her more than anything else about her situation. If they were just kind and sympathetic, she could (almost) understand it. If they were just cold and aloof, it would make complete sense. But she couldn’t wrap her head around their constant chopping and changing, nor exactly _why_ they were doing so.

Hermione sighed and tried to clear her mind of the countless questions swirling furiously around her head. Most of them she couldn’t answer by doing anything other than waiting. She shook her head quickly and held her arm out in front of her, pleased to see that not even a slight trace of the tremor remained.

“ _Avis._ ”

She gave herself a small smile of satisfaction as dozens of colourful little songbirds began twittering about the room, and a much larger one as she heard Malfoy snap in annoyance

“Not those fucking birds again!”

* * *

“How is she?”

Two teenage boys stared blankly into the face of the Dark Lord.

“Well?” he asked again impatiently. “Is she eating? Is she plotting an escape? What’s her emotional state like? _How is she?_ ”

The boys quickly glanced at each other, a silent conversation between the two of them. Theodore Nott, it seemed, had been elected to speak first.

“She’s eating fine. She’s bored, and frustrated, and scared,”

“Irritating,” Malfoy supplied rather unhelpfully, before Nott scowled at him and continued.

“She’s definitely not planning to escape, if she was she would have attacked us by now.”

At this the Dark Lord raised an eyebrow.

“Attacked? Really? She’s half your size.”

“She likes wandless magic, My Lord, and she’s quite skilled. Mostly conjuring these little birds, but she’s proven that she can throw a nasty cutting hex wandlessly and nonverbally.”

The Dark Lord was silent for a moment, thinking. He had heard rumours of this witch’s ability, even despite her heritage, but wandless _and_ nonverbal spells at that age was impressive. ‘Brightest witch of her year’ was beginning to seem like quite an understatement. She was certainly going to be useful, that much he knew already. He was good at making people useful to him, even when they didn’t particularly want to be. The real question was how much of her loyalty would he be able to secure. _At least some_ , he reasoned with himself, _else she wouldn’t have surrendered and would be dead or in prison with the rest of her little friends._

“What’s she like? As I person, I mean, to interact with?”

“Stubborn,” Malfoy said immediately, “And smart. She’ll always try to outmanoeuvre you, be the one controlling the conversation.”

“She doesn’t do anything that she doesn’t want to,” added Nott, before more hesitantly saying “You should never assume that you know her. She’s not the Gryffindor princess people think she is; she has a secret love for forbidden knowledge.”

Malfoy shot Nott a look that clearly said _How the fuck do you know that?_ But didn’t question it out loud.

“Thank you, boys,” the Dark Lord said in a dismissive tone. “Your information has been very helpful to me.”

They nodded and stood to leave before he added “Bring her to me. Tomorrow, at four o’clock.”

Once Malfoy and Nott had left the room, he sighed and poured himself a drink. He had a lot to think about before tomorrow afternoon.

* * *

It was odd to be wearing shoes again. After two weeks she had gotten used to walking barefoot over the soft carpets in her room. Hermione, who wasn’t used to wearing high heels at the best of times, was now beginning to regret her decision to wear them as Nott led her through seemingly endless corridors and up and down countless flights of stairs. It didn’t help that much of the castle was still in ruins.

But, Hermione told herself, a girl’s clothes determine how she is perceived, and the Dark Lord’s perception of her in their first proper meeting was crucial, therefore, she wore the heels. She glanced down at her outfit for the hundredth time. It had taken her three hours to decide what to wear and she had eventually settled on a simple light jumper, skirt, and of course the heels. It was important that she looked youthful, but not childish, proper, but not extravagant. She wanted him to know that she, a mudblood, was perfectly capable of fitting in with wizarding and pureblood society, whilst at the same time not giving him reason to have her executed. Although somehow she doubted that would happen.

After twenty minutes of nothing but their shoes clicking against the stone floors of the castle, Nott stopped suddenly, grabbing her arm and spinning her to face him.

“We’re almost there, when we go in I will bow and introduce you to the Dark Lord. You will curtsy, say ‘My Lord’ and then do absolutely nothing else unless he tells you to. Don’t sit unless he invites you to, do not speak unless you are spoken to. You will do absolutely nothing that could come back on me. Do you understand?”

She nodded. “Curtsy, cajole him, stand around being pretty, don’t embarrass you or Malfoy. Got it.”

“Who said anything about not embarrassing Malfoy?” Nott said, and she couldn’t tell if his tone was joking or not. She assumed the latter because he then immediately glared at her.

“I’m not joking, Granger.”

Hermione fought the urge to roll her eyes. “Yes, okay, I understand.”

“Show me,” he demanded.

“You’re going to have to let go of my arm first.”

He dropped it as though it were burning hot, almost like he’d forgotten he was touching her in the first place, and looked at her expectantly.

She gave him a low, graceful curtsy, then, with her head still bowed ever so slightly, but still looking right at him said “My Lord,”

Nott looked taken aback for a moment before gesturing for her to follow him again, although seeming slightly less tense than he had done before.

Hermione fought the urge to laugh, not wanting to reveal that it was not from wanting to fit in with pureblood society, that she had learned to curtsy properly, but from a childhood obsession with muggle princesses.

They came to a stop in front of a heavy wooden door in a corridor that she had never seen before. She wondered if the castle was simply bigger than she had thought all these years, or had rebuilt itself differently after the battle. Or both.

Nott quickly checked the time before knocking twice and leading her through the door. She came face to face with a Tom Riddle who couldn’t have been any older than her. He was leaning against the front of his desk seemingly waiting for them, wearing not the robes she was expecting him to, but a muggle suit.

“Hermione Granger, My Lord,” Nott said, bowing deeply.

“Thank you, Theodore, you can go,” the Dark Lord responded without really paying attention.

The door closed behind her and they turned to study each other for a moment. His suit jacket was off and draped over the back of his chair and he seemed incredibly at ease for a leader dealing with the aftermath of a war. This was his private space, she realised, this office was where he thought and planned and relaxed and certainly _not_ the place to have meetings with followers and prisoners and, well, whatever she was to him. She strongly suspected that he would have another, more public office for that purpose.

It was odd, though, because for a man who had built his following by calling for the genocide of muggleborns, he didn’t seem in any way disgusted or repulsed by her. He merely seemed _interested_ by her. Which she found unsettling because she couldn’t imagine any aspect of herself which would seem interesting to him. Useful, yes. Interesting, no.

But apparently there was a lot that she couldn’t imagine, because a month ago it would never in a million years have occurred to her that she would be standing in front of the Dark Lord Voldemort, while he gave her a casual and friendly smile.

She wondered what his analysis of her was.

“Miss Granger,” he greeted her at last with a disturbing warmth, taking her hand in his and lightly brushing his lips across her knuckles. “Or may I call you Hermione?”

She gave him a tiny curtsy, nowhere near as low as the one she had demonstrated to Nott, and a slight incline of her head. “Well that depends, can I call you Tom?”

He looked surprised, but not angry as she had expected him to. “I should have expected nothing less from Potter’s little sidekick,” he gestured to two armchairs in front of the fireplace. “Please, sit.”

“I think you’ll find you’re mistaken, Ron Weasley was the sidekick, I was just the one who actually did everything.”

He smiled at her again and motioned to the chair in front of him. “I think you and I are going to become good friends, Hermione. Although,” he added as she sat across from him. “I fear that that outfit is a form of silent protest.”

Hermione frowned, she had spent so long finding something to wear and as she looked down at her skirt she couldn’t see anything wrong with it. Then she realised. Her skirt. Her red skirt. Her bright, Gryffindor red skirt. She didn’t know how she could have missed it; it was so obvious. _Idiot_ she scolded herself.

She shrugged. “I just thought it was pretty. Is yours referencing your muggle heritage?”

She fought back a wince as she said it, fully expecting him to get angry and throw at least a few curses towards her. Probably a cruciatus as he seemed to be most fond of that one. There was even a small part of her which was expecting him to kill her right there and then. What she was not expecting, however, was for the Dark Lord to laugh.

It was a genuine sound too, nothing fake or cold or sarcastic in it. She realised that he had truly found it funny, and it put her on edge. Over the past fortnight she had developed an idea in her head of what he would be like, from his behaviours to his plans for her future. Even for this odd, human form that he seemed to be inhabiting now. But to wrong about so many things and assume that her image was the correct one disturbed her. She wasn’t used to making mistakes and she felt as though the conversation was slipping further and further out of her control before it had even really begun.

He seemed to catch her staring at him and shot her an amused look.

“You don’t seem surprised to see me in a human body, either now, or when you pulled that little stunt two weeks ago. So, Hermione, I am curious as to whether or not you know the reason _why_ I look like this?”

“I-,” Hermione stopped herself. She had been about to say that she had no idea but then she realised, slightly horrified, that she did.

“ _The horcruxes_ ,” her voice was barely above a whisper.

“Good girl. What specifically about them?”

On the surface, his voice was still amused and playful but Hermione could see (well, _hear_ ) under the surface to where every word he spoke was laced with threats. She tried not to shudder.

“They were all destroyed, either before or during the battle. You don’t just look human, you _are_ human. The soul fragments have returned to their original body and so I assume that your physical state has reverted back to what it was when the soul was first split, and-,” she paused, another wave of realisation washing over her.

“Go on.”

“And you’re mortal again,” she finished.

“So you understand,” he said softly, carefully examining her face for any trace of her thoughts. “Why is it of paramount importance that this information does not leave this room.”

“I can do that,” she agreed readily and he rewarded her with another one of his charming smiles. “ _But_ , I want something in return.”

He held up his hand to stop her as a tray began to magically appear on the table between them.

“Our negotiations can begin soon, Hermione, for now I’ve arranged for tea to be sent up to us. It’s nothing fancy, just little sandwiches and cakes and things, but I always find it easier to think on a full stomach, don’t you?” He smiled at her again and motioned towards the table where a teapot was filling two cups on its own.

Hermione gave him a gracious smile in return, and began to wonder just what the hell she had gotten herself in for.


End file.
